


Grounder Fetish

by subplotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, brief description of masturbation, fetishization of Grounders OBVI, general fucked-up-ness, mentions of cages, mindfuckery, ptsd that's probably not accurately portrayed, the Grounders and the Sky People are still at war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:31:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subplotter/pseuds/subplotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy tries to confide some dark Grounder thoughts to Bellamy and gets a mind fuck in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounder Fetish

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cross-post from my [tumblr](http://somebodysmonster.tumblr.com). I'm posting it here because I intend to write a follow-up.

Despite the fact that Murphy woke up sweat-slick and nauseous a lot of the time, with pictures of the Grounders in his head, with the body memories of their blades sliding down his skin and the aching in his hands, sometimes he wanted to go back. He knew it was an irrational thought. It was sort of like suicide. Sometimes he fantasized about blood dripping down from his wrist, dripping off the tips of his fingers, but he didn't really want it. It was just a vision that nagged him. Just like thinking about his cage. Yes, he had gotten out as soon as they'd left it open for him, and yes, he would do all he could to stop someone putting a blade in his veins, but he still thought about it. Over and over and over, and it drove him a lot more crazy than suicide thoughts. Those he had dealt for for much of his life, and he knew he'd never go through with it. But sometimes, at night, when he was on watch staring into the woods, he feared he'd go back to them.

_Use me. Pay attention to me. Need me._  Murphy wanted Clarke and Bellamy to focus on him so badly, to put him to use every moment, to keep a watch on him like he was a prisoner and they required him for something important. It had felt good, in a way. It had been awful--it had been a hell he couldn't imagine surviving again--but there had been something about all that negative attention that satisfied him. It had been similar to having Bellamy alone in the drop ship, wanting to do anything he could to calm Murphy down. And oh, the Grounders were relentless. He had gotten away from them, and they had found him once more, bloodied him up again, nearly killed him.

It was in the past. He told himself over and over that it was in the past. But it felt like it was happening in the present, like a blurry overlay on the moments he was actually experiencing, and he needed someone to make it stop.

He thought of going to Clarke. Clarke was medical; she could help. But Murphy had never seen her tend to an emotional wound before, and he couldn't imagine her doing it. Clarke was very important to Murphy, but she could be cold. She could be very mean. Her eyes turned to crystal sometimes when she looked at Murphy, and he felt those looks like a physical pang in his chest. The things he needed to tell someone wouldn't make any sense. He didn't know if he'd even be able to voice them. But he couldn't show them to someone who would get angry with him first off (possibly).

So he went to Bellamy. Because Bellamy was really the only other choice, and Murphy knew Bellamy got super hard for playing Daddy around here. Even to Murphy.

He made sure to volunteer for a watch shift at the same time as the other. That way they could talk. Plus, Bellamy was one of the few people who trusted Murphy enough to be on watch with him. But it was a tense affair. Tense, and quiet, because it wasn't as if the two of them were friends.

After about an hour of dead silent fucking boring bullshit, Murphy still hadn't managed to break the silence and tell him what he'd meant to. Bellamy spoke first. And he said in that over-sure voice of his, "So. Have you been being good?"

_Fucking--_  "Yeah... I need to talk to you about something." Murphy's own brand of cockiness inched into his demeanor automatically. This was something that happened when people tried to flirt with him, whether or not they were actually...flirting.

"Okay," said Bellamy. "What is it?" He wasn't looking at Murphy--he was looking straight ahead, _watching,_  as it were--and Murphy was extremely thankful for that.

He took a deep breath. "I've been having some really fucked up thoughts about the Grounders, and I think that I might be going insane." He spoke it all in one breath, quickly.

Bellamy slid his eyes toward Murphy, looking at him out of the corners, brows cinched and lip turned up a bit. "Fucked up how?"

Murphy swore he felt it down his neck, that body memory of their stupid, giant knives. "I, uh--" He looked down at the grass, spun the handle of his gun against the dirt. "Sometimes...I want to go back to them."

Bellamy didn't react at all for a moment, and Murphy stopped spinning his gun. He waited for what he'd said to sink in. And then Bellamy said, "Why in the  _hell_  would you want to do that?"

Murphy felt nauseous immediately, anxiety pumping his heart hard in his chest. He probably looked like a trapped animal, and he was so stupid for saying anything at all, he knew. Bellamy wouldn't get it. Bellamy would trust him even less.

"Murphy," he said sternly.

"I don't know. I mean...I don't know. Maybe I like cages, I don't know."

Bellamy was silent for another moment before speaking. "They tortured you. They stabbed you in the fucking leg."

"I know."

"You're just like Octavia. Got a fucking Grounder fetish, huh?"

Murphy laughed. Although it was less of a laugh and more of a puff of air past his teeth. Bellamy really couldn't be trusted with this. Murphy had been dead wrong. He should have gone to Clarke. "I don't have a  _Grounder fetish."_  But even as he said the words, redness splotched up over his throat, and though he was still avoiding looking at Bellamy, he could feel him watching him.

And he could hear him laughing. "Right. But it doesn't matter. You're not going back to the Grounders."

Murphy swallowed. He calmed down a bit. He resumed a confident posture and stared forward like he was supposed to. He couldn't remember what he'd wanted out of this talk, and it hadn't gone quite like he'd wanted it to.

"Did you hear me, Murphy? You're not going back to the Grounders. I won't have you giving up info a third time."

"Yeah. I heard you."

Another hour passed. More silence. They were on a four-hour shift, and Murphy couldn't wait for it to be over. But at the same time, there was something comforting about being on watch with Bellamy. He was being used for something. This was exactly where he was supposed to be.

When the silence got unbearably boring again, Bellamy repeated what he'd said earlier. "So. Have you been being good?"

Murphy smirked and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, spinning his gun once more. "The way you phrase that..."

"Answer the question."

"Of course I have. I'm being good  _right_  now."

"That's right. You are. I should reward you somehow."

Murphy slid his eyes onto Bellamy this time, watching him in his peripheral, but Bellamy was staring straight ahead. "And just how are you going to do that," he said. _  
_

"Who knows. Maybe I can build a cage out of sticks and stick you in a hole somewhere."

The heat returned immediately to Murphy's throat, and he shifted again, moving his gun from one hand to the other. Bellamy did this with him sometimes. Said nearly inappropriate things. Murphy used his cockiness as a weapon, but it was hard to bring it up just now. The only other option, however, was turning into a confused, nervous mess.

So he said in a sardonic tone, "You'd have to do a lot more than that."

Bellamy smiled. "I'm scared to ask for details. You were a fucking mess when you crawled back to camp."

"And you wanted to kill me."

"I still want to kill you. Clarke won't let me. You should really thank her sometime."

Murphy scowled. Fuck them both. "You'd have to hurt me," he said, anger gritting his tone. "You'd have to hurt me pretty bad. That'd be a good reward. Maybe I'd stop being scared I actually will do it, go back to the Grounders. I think about it e--"

Bellamy cut him off with a grip in the front of Murphy's shirt, bringing their faces close. Murphy fought it, but Bellamy was stronger, always. "If you do that--and if you come back here again--I will kill you. And nothing Clarke says or does will be able to stop me."

Murphy liked violence. He liked it when people hated him. It felt natural, and easy. So he was all nonchalant badness as Bellamy still held him, laughter tumbling from his lips. "I bet you'd get off on that, wouldn't you."

Bellamy smirked, but none of the mirth touched his eyes. He dropped Murphy and half-pushed him away. "A lot of things would get me off. But right now, we have to watch the trees." And he picked up his gun like he was ready to shoot, gesturing at the woods before them.

They fell into silence once again. A long, unbearable silence that Murphy knew he couldn't break. There was nothing they could do past what they'd already done save for Bellamy shoving Murphy against a tree.

And oh, Murphy wanted that. He wanted it worse than he wanted to be hurt, bad enough to drown out this fucked up yearning to go get himself tortured again. But once the shift was over, Bellamy made no move to touch him, nor to even speak to him. Murphy was left to douse the heat on his own. To muffle his own noises into a dirty hand while he jacked himself with the other, thoughts twisting up all together: Bellamy, the Grounders, blood, blades, more Bellamy.


End file.
